It All Started With A Raid
by Ellie White
Summary: Written through Private Eugene E. Jackson's point of view during episode Eight "The Last Patrol." Every brave soldier's story should be told. My heart went out to him.


Disclaimer: I own nothing. I saw the pain Private Eugene E. Jackson (played by Andrew Lee Potts) went through and decided to give him a point of view. I researched a lot for it, but I also played with his name (not sure what his middle name actually was, but it started with an E, and Edward just sounded right) and his background a bit. So, again, I own nothing. Please review!

WARNING: A bit of graphic violence.

* * *

It all started with a raid.

December of 1944. The Americans attacked the Germans in December, under the orders of taking Haguenau and the forest with it. We succeeded and the Germans withdrew.

That's where we came in.

Another year has gone and it's now 1945. We just relieved the Infantry Regiment of the 79th Division and, hopefully soon, another division will relieve us as well.

It's February 15th and I'm fighting along with the brave and courageous heroes of Easy Company 506th Infantry Regiment. A few days ago, we met Private First Class David Webster of the second Battalion; the memory is still fresh in my mind.

_A tall man in a netted helmet walked behind the convoy. He looked at the lot of us with slight confusion, but it became blatantly obvious when his eyes stopped on me, squinting hard._

"_Your name's Jackson, right?"_

"_That's right," I replied, my breath escaping, evaporating into the cold, Belgian air. _

Eugene Edward Jackson, but my friends at home call me "Gene." Twenty years old and I'm already a soldier in combat, fighting in World War II. Thankfully, I've still got most of my health intact, save for an injury to my ear. That one happened in Normandy, but that's a whole other story.

"_Who's leading the platoon?" he asked._

"_Sergeant Malarkey is," I replied, looking over at the man standing in the back, gripping one of the canvas poles. He was shocked to hear no officers were with us. That's when they informed him that the Sergeant was being promoted to Lieutenant._

"_Yeah? That's great," he nodded before turning back to me, "Jackson, help me up, will ya?" He threw his duffel bag onto the truck while I moved over to make room for him to sit at the end, grasping one of his uniform straps for extra leverage. The truck jerked, throwing him into his seat with a grunt._

"_So, uh, you come from the hospital?" I asked, wondering what his story was._

"_Yep."_

_I discovered from the grill that Liebgott started putting him through that he had been laid up in Holland for awhile with his own injury. He said he wasn't there the whole time; he was also going through rehab and had to deal with the replacement depot. It seemed like some of the men resented him for not joining the front line again like some of those that were wounded. Then Liebgott started listing others and then he said it._

"…_Guarnere…"_

"_Yeah, where is Guarnere? Is he still your platoon Sergeant?" Webster asked._

_Staff Sergeant William Guarnere, or "Gonorrhea" as we called him, had an understandable hatred for the Germans, more so than most, I suppose. His brother was killed in combat by the German Army in the Italian Campaign and this hatred he housed earned him the title "Wild Bill" by those who saw his determination in battle._

"_Nah," I swallowed hard, barely getting the words out. "He got hit."_

"Hit" was a nice way of putting it. He'd been shot in the right leg by a German sniper. It knocked him off the motorcycle he was driving to check on his men along the front line. He fractured his tibia and caught some shrapnel in his behind.

Never saw him again. He was a good man.

An even better soldier.

* * *

Later on, about five days ago, I sat back and listened while the guys were pressing Webster for information about the patrol. Apparently, the order had been given for a dangerous night patrol to infiltrate and capture German prisoners for interrogation purposes. Web said there were three men in the room who they think should be on the patrol; Private Edward Heffron, who we call "Babe", Corporal Earl "One Lung" McLung and Private Joseph Ramirez.

As unhappy as we were to hear the news, word also came to us of more rations heading our way and the usage of showers. A blessing in disguise let me tell you. Our happiness was short-lived, however, when the sounds of gunfire were heard outside the house we were holed up in. Grabbing our gear, we ran out the door, ready for anything.

Or so we thought.

One of our men, Sergeant William "Bill" Kiehn, had huddled in a foxhole and got caught in the heat of artillery fire. Needless to say, he didn't make it long enough to be seen by the medic. Imagine, the stupidity of being killed over a bag of potatoes he was carrying from one building to another! The others moved on, while I was ordered to stay behind and watch him. I tried to pretend I didn't see the medic handing over Bill's dog tag for the journey home.

* * *

Things started rolling again, yesterday afternoon. We stood by the tent, waiting to be talked to.

"Second Platoon, on me!" Malarkey called, bringing a meeting to order. He scratched his nose with a look of uneasiness. Whatever he had to say, was nothing we wanted to hear or news he wanted to give.

As we gathered round him, I lit up a cigarette with shaky hands, never more nervous in my life.

"Alright, I'm leading this patrol," he announced.

I let out a rocky breath as he continued.

"C.O. wants Grant…Liebgott…"

'Oh no,' I thought as he turned to me.

"…Wynn…"

I exhaled in relief when I didn't hear him say-

"…Jackson…"

That. I turned and stormed off to the bunk to gather my thoughts. I didn't bother to stick around to hear who else was destined to die with me.

Several hours later, an official meeting with the C.O. was called. Fifteen of us were selected for this mission, "a prisoner snatch" tonight and I happened to be one of the elite. I sat in the dining room chair at the large table, mentally cursing the orders we were given without letting it show on my face.

We were on at 0100 hours. I ate dinner with the guys and smoked more than I had in my entire life. Lung Cancer's really low on the list of dangerous risks when you're on the front lines. After the last one in my pack, I pushed it all away and began tampering with some grenade and firearm repair. Be prepared; not just a Boy Scout motto. Prepared for what though, I wasn't exactly sure.

* * *

0100 hours was here and Technical Sergeant Malarkey led us across the river on inflatable rafts and crawling through some freezing cold snow-filled trenches. My body was having a hard time dealing with getting wet and then letting it freeze.

The raid plan was simple; distraction, infiltration and withdrawal. They're to shoot out the window to the house holding the prisoners and my job was to follow it up with a bit more firepower; grenades. We ducked and stooped, moving silently to the prisoner house.

Crouching next to the wall, we leaned against it and drew all of our firearms; rifles and explosives alike. I readied my grenade while Staff Sergeant John Martin mounted his M7 rifle grenade launcher to his M1 Garand. And suddenly, this was it; the moment we'd all been dreading and waiting for. Seeing Martin stand and turn to the window before blowing it out shocked my system and caused a flood of adrenaline to shoot through my veins.

It was my turn. I grabbed my gun and ran up the stone grey staircase along the side of the building, not letting the fact that my comrade had shouted after me to wait as the grenade exploded, sending a shower of glass to rain down on us. Covering my head, I waited until it had fallen and chucked my grenade through the shattered pane. Without a coherent thought in my head, blinded by the adrenaline, I opened the door in time to experience the blast from the grenade.

The force of the blast threw me to the ground with a breathless groan and I felt the left side of my face simultaneously burn and sting. I yelled out at the excruciating pain. My neck felt cut and I was having a hard time breathing. Second Lieutenant Henry Jones grabbed me by the jacket and flipped me over. I'll never forget the look on his face.

Someone hoisted me over their shoulder and I was run through ground zero like my life depended on it. Although the way it had hurt, I'm pretty sure that may just be right on target.

I could feel the blood, dripping down the side of my face and no matter how still or not they left me, the muscles in my face throbbed. What I used to feel in my chest, I now felt beating against my left eye, my nose and the corner of my mouth.

While they moved me on foot, I felt the rafts underneath me that we used to cross the river and I could see the blinding light of gunfire above me, trailing behind the bullets. Soon, it was pulled to shore and the unit took cover back at the house we had been temporarily residing at. Standing me up, they threw my arms around their necks and laid me on a cot.

"The pain, it's too much, I can't take it!" I writhed against the cot, pleading for relief, begging for a fraction of numbness. I could feel tears slipping from my swollen eye, down into the cuts and the salty sting doesn't even compare to the soul-ripping torture I'm still feeling.

"Calm down, Jackson," they plead. But I can't! I can't stay still.

I choked again, not even sure if it was saliva or blood, but suspected the later.

And that's how it came to this.

I can hear them now, this very second, telling me that everything is going to be alright, that everything is going to be fine, but I know better. No one ever says that in combat unless they're trying to calm you down, preparing you for the inevitable. If the pain hadn't given away the condition I was in, their optimistic chanting wasn't helping and to seal the deal, one of my brothers in arms was in shock, repeating, "He's not going to make it! Look at that! He's never going to make it…"

"Don't listen to him, Jackson! Look at me!" I turned my head to see my brothers all with concerned looks on their faces. It's the first time I took a look at how this was affecting them, as well as me. Each one has a frown on their faces and glazed over eyes. "Don't listen to him, he doesn't know what he's talking about!"

The pain…Oh, God, please make it stop! Please, I beg you with everything that I have!

And suddenly, just like that, the edge has been taken off the pain. I know it's nothing the fellows did, we don't have any medical advancements with us in the field. If I'm not feeling the pain, that means that either it's slipping away…or I am. Oh, no! Not that! Please not that!

"Be calm, buddy," Webster said in a calm, mothering tone. "Everything's fine."

I let out a sob.

"Jackson, stay calm. The medic's on the way."

I'm starting to cry now and painfully trying to ignore the copper tasting river running down the back of my throat. I'm pushing aside the fact that my body is beginning to feel lighter and number. My vision's starting to blur a bit around the edges and people are beginning to be harder to make out.

I can hear them shouting, wondering where the medic was; a sure sign that if he isn't here already, it's over for me.

As luck would have it, the medic is now standing over me. He grabbed my head and told me to take it easy. He lifted my good eyelid to check them, and I'm choking again. "Light, I need some light!"

Someone lit a lighter near my head. "Look at the light, Jackson, look at the flame."

I'm staring at the light and miraculously I seem to be able to breathe a little easier.

"Ok, that's good, that's good."

My breath's unsteady and shaky, sending the flame dancing for a split second. I whimpered.

"Alright, let's get him outta here," the medic said, moving to relocate me. "Let's get him outta here."

I could breathe again and the pain was dying. No…I was dying.

"No! I don't wanna die!" I sobbed harder as they picked me up to move me. "I don't wanna die!"

I felt them place me on a canvas stretcher and carry me to another room, lowering me a bit as they ducked from an outside missile explosion.

I coughed, gasping for sulfuric air, but not being able to catch any.

"Hang on! Jackson, I need you to HANG ON!" he yelled.

My throat's filling with liquid and there's no more room left for air. This is it.

My vision's blurry but I can make out their solemn faces. As the image blurred and darkened, I felt them cover my face with a blanket.

And now, I feel no pain. I feel myself slipping away like the world is disappearing before me.

And, yet, all I can think is that, at least I know I tried.

For my country; a nation, under God, home of freedom, liberty, opportunity and justice for everyone.

For my family; my mom, my dad and my little sister, who I'll never see again.

For my brothers; we all sacrificed so much for what we love. Hang tough, guys.

So yeah, it all started with a raid… and may have ended in death.

But I'm glad that if I had to die, what I died for is something you can all live for; Freedom.

_This we'll defend._ Carry on, men.


End file.
